


An Incident Up in Tall Trees

by Tanfa



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: OC is a dumbass, One Off, writing this kind of killed me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-08-19 17:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20213380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanfa/pseuds/Tanfa
Summary: 1907. Bounty hunter Henry "Hank" Chapin heard rumors in all directions of Dutch van der Linde's location. He was stupid enough to chase them.





	An Incident Up in Tall Trees

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came out of nowhere. It's not my favorite, but it has given me some insight in how to write "action-oriented" scenes. Feedback (constructive feedback, that is) would be much appreciated. :)

Henry Chapin hated snow. These bones were still young, but they would never grow accustomed to being frozen and worn as they worked to trek through two feet of fresh snow lying above ice. He hadn't yet been in this country, or at least this region of West Elizabeth, in the dead of winter. As he shivered guiding Cecily through the forest of seemingly endless pines, he again started to wonder if he was going mad like his mother before him. It was mid-January, and here he was, wandering through Tall Trees all because of a few _whispers_ here and there and a single newspaper clipping.

He stopped in his tracks. The sound of snapping twigs seemed to send cracks through the air. He turned his head to view the source of the noise. Twenty yards behind Hank stood an elk, it raising its head to stare back at the intruding man and his faithful appaloosa. He exhaled deeply, relieved at his discovery. He judged his current surroundings; he had to have been far enough north judging by the now looming mountains. He never liked the stillness that snowfall always brought with it. With every second he remained on this land, Hank regretted this mission of his more and more.

That old Nordic feller up in Manzanita have better told him the goddamn truth. That decrepit man Olsen likely told many a man like Chapin the exact same location to be maimed and killed, be it by a cougar or by one of those few "Skinner brothers" still thought to be around in these parts. Many men, like Chapin, must have come with the reports.

"NOTORIOUS BADMAN ALIVE"

_Dutch van der Linde_ _. Reported alive this year in this area. $15,000 on his head, dead or alive. _

_If all that were true, this could by far be the biggest bounty Henry Chapin had taken yet, and would be the biggest bounty he would ever take in his life. And with that knowledge came profound caution he didn't even have when tying up banditos in New Austin. Van der Linde deserved those 15,000 dollars if he's guilty of all he's said to be._

Henry Chapin had now been tracking Dutch van der Linde for months. Months of asking around, baring suspicious glances, determining which piece of information was credible, and constructing his plan of action again and again. All that was certain was a bank robbery had gone horribly wrong for Van der Linde and his band of natives nearly two years ago, and the notorious outlaw was presumed dead with his henchmen.

Hank finally happened upon the destination it felt like hours to find. A dilapidated little cabin sat before him, in-grown shrubbery visible through the holes in the walls and roof half destroyed from a fallen tree. He walked to the structure's side to see a door, crooked and ajar revealing the inside of the cabin.

Hank peered through the holes in the cabin walls, struggling with the dimming light of the winter afternoon. He swung open the door to where it almost fell off its hinges, investigating every corner of the home with his revolver. Nothing.

"Thank the Lord. Olsen weren't the liar I made 'im for."

* * *

Hank remained by Cecily's side. His hair stood up on the back of his neck. In the still wintry landscape, something did not feel right. Then he heard the familiar mechanical sound by his right ear. He instinctively raised his hands. The man holding him at gunpoint grunted. He retrieved Chapin's firearms holstered on his right side.

"_Don't you dare reach for that gun, you son of a bitch_."

The man pushed the barrel of his gun against Hank's head. He roughly pushed Hank forward, causing him to stumble and fall onto the solid, snow-covered ground. A sharp kick bellowed into his rib cage.

"What do you think would happen, you stupid boy?"

Hard kicks evolved into a proper beating with the man's fists. Chapin finally saw the man as olive-complected, likely an Indian feller. Between blocking the man's punches, he caught a glimpse of another, profoundly different man hanging by the side. This man had pale skin, wore a black fur coat that matched his hair and beard, and from the distance was clearly quite tall. Despite his now hazy state of mind, Hank Chapin felt he recognized that man.

"That's enough. Leave him to me now, son." The man to the side calmly uttered, with a voice Hank noted as distinct.

The Native man grunted, but stepped aside as he was told. Hank lay raised up from the ground, him rubbing his jaw as blood dripped onto the fresh snow. He had little time to massage his likely swollen face before the unkempt white man appeared in front of him to loosely grab him by the throat. Hank's attention was fully directed at the man's face, and he saw for certain a face that had matched a certain physical description. Dutch van der Linde, somehow appearing more broken than he'd imagined, had Hank at his mercy.

The large man spoke softly, his rancid breath in Hank bloodied nose.  
"Been sneakin' about this place for a few days now, ain't you?" Hank loudly cleared his throat at the question. He thought he heard some sort of rustling in the distance.

An intense expression suddenly fell on Dutch's face. The older man pressed his hands against Hank's windpipe, and the younger man instinctively fought as his ability to breathe was cut off.

"Why don't you answer my question?" _How could he? _Henry Chapin struggled to loosen Dutch's hands wrapped around his neck. He could only look into his eyes. Finally, Dutch van der Linde loosened his grip. He barely gave Hank time to sputter out before his right hand balled up into a fist and flew into the younger man's face, his left hand still wrapped around his neck.

"Now _why_ would you possibly wanna be in this place you do not belong?" Dutch scoffed, with an amused expression. He took out of his belt a large hunting knife.

"Maybe I'm just lost." Hank coughed out. The same rustling noise appeared once again. Dutch pressed his hand against the young man's head, the hunting knife brushing against his throat.

"_Perhaps you is, friend,_" Dutch growled in response. He lifted the knife from Hank's throat and guided it to parts of his abdomen, deciding where he wanted to begin gutting him. "_Perhaps you is._"

"OVER THERE! OVER THERE! I SEE SOMETHING!"

* * *

It took Chapin a moment to adjust to the sudden chaos around him.

The assailants he found were three men, all of whom were white and all of whom Hank had skirmishes with. These men were O'Keefe's boys, rivals of his in bounty hunting. A bullet flew past, and he ducked just in time for it to narrowly miss his face. Dutch van der Linde left him and took cover behind the small cabin, wielding a revolver in both hands. Right above Hank a bullet ripped through the air and pierced the right arm of one of O'Keefe's men; another bullet hit the man's jaw, and he fell to the forest floor. Hank quickly lifted his upper body, carefully scouting for a place to take immediate cover. Suddenly, an arm wrapped around his neck, placing yet another choke hold on him. It was the forearm of the Native man. Hank was lifted up and dragged as the Indian fired at O'Keefe's boys.

He was using him as a shield.

Dutch popped in and out of sight, alternating between the firearms he wielded in either hand.

"_AND ALL YOU WHORES JUST KEEP COMIN'!_" He shouted this with a sense of pleasure, as if something he truly hoped for finally came to pass. Was Dutch van der Linde aiming at anyone in particular? He would kill. Just look at the man's life. It just seemed like he was bidding his time. He seemed to savor the firefight. Hank knew he had to get himself out of this predicament or he would be dead in at most a few minutes. The Native feller was a quick shot, however. He shot enough to make one of the surviving men, a man Hank recalled as being named Davies, retreat behind a pine tree near the clearing.

The man had Chapin with his left arm, as he shot with his right hand. Chapin was able to slip his left shoulder away from the man's abdomen with ease. Before he could react, Hank pushed him away with considerable force. Right as a bullet flew from Davies' gun and struck the Native man in his head, with such force his neck looked ready to snap. Hank flew to the side of the newly-made corpse, and grabbed both the man's firearm and his own. He made his way to the edge of the clearing for his own pine tree to hide behind.

"WHAT YOU RUNNIN' FROM, BOY?" Davies bellowed from the relative safety of the thick pines. Dutch seized this moment to fire back at O'Keefe's two surviving men. Davies and Van der Linde both shot at once, and the two men fell down as bullets struck them. Hank peered from the other side of the pine tree to see the third, uninjured man carrying a rifle that was aimed in his direction. Two shots echoed, and one shot responded.

Two bullets had entered the O'Keefe man's back. The next one exited from the barrel of his rifle, piercing Chapin in the left shoulder. O'Keefe's third man lay dead in the clearing, and Hank lay in excruciating pain by the trees. Hank grunted loudly and shifted into a more comfortable position against one of the pine trees. For a fleeting moment, he believed him safe from danger. He only had to glance in the distance above his line of sight to spot a familiar tall figure in black. He bled heavily, and visibly struggled to walk while holding the wounded side of his abdomen. Dutch was an old man now, certainly. He labored to the edge of the clearing where Hank now rested, still wielding a Schofield revolver in his left hand. A gentle snowfall began.

Hank Chapin readied his own weapon, as Dutch arrived to aim at his head. There were three ways this would end. Neither man really had much hope in their circumstances. 

The two squeezed their respective triggers, and the final sound of a gunshot rang throat the air up in the Tall Trees.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really plan this fic, and I barely edited it. This fic has more things wrong with it than it has right, but I felt inclined to write it. Near the end, I was dead however. I didn't really research _ at all _, and so I apologize for that.  
Anyway, I consider this something like a rough draft. I may come back to this premise, and this OC in due time. Hopefully, I'll handle the hypothetical product with far more grace than this.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
